Monthly Archives: March 2012

November 27, 2010; revised and republished. Thank You kindly to many Hubbers that made this experience even more enjoyable. I never thinking of course was possible. Last point, there will be 4 republished Hubs in the mix [picking up pace ? !] but surely would let you know.

I am going to share with you the most intense, romantic, breathtaking night of my life.

I have never told a soul this before. However, I do love to write and someone gave me some great advice. Write about what I love. Well, I loved, and will never forget, this particular evening, 3 years ago.

Damn it feels so good to remember the details, smells, tastes, sounds, sensations, fears, intrigue.

It feels good to remember the forbidden place I travelled to, without taking a single step.

Yes, it is an intimate place I went to. One I had never been before, and with a complete stranger. I must add, since then, I have not been gifted with experiencing this moment ever again.

At 40 years of age, I finally was offered a chance to feel and embrace what my womanhood truly was.

It must have been about 8 or 9 in the evening, it was foggy outside, drizzling rain and I could see the steam rising from the street grates near my home. I love the rain. Along with the fog, and flickering dim streetlights, a mood already created an intensified, suspicious, unprotected feeling.

If there was anything I could change about this particular early Sunday dark evening, looking back, would be the moon. It was draped over, in a sense, by the fog and rain, just trying to peak through, but not enough to provide more light.

As I was determined, to take a walk.

No umbrella, no raincoat or boots just my white silk nightgown, my silver bracelet, a ponytail and bound to go barefoot. I wanted to feel the rain, not shelter from it. I wanted to feel the cobblestone brick road under my feet as I splashed in the, now growing, puddles of water. I wanted my breasts to form shape and color stuck to my thin gown and I wanted to dare myself to do something I had never donebefore. I wanted to be as close to pure as I could, to taste as much rain as possible, to feel as much fog on my skin from just moving and to walk confident, alone, unashamed, acting as casual as if everyone did this.

I couldn’t even believe my own actions, just as I planned, I left the front door, not bother locking it, and slowly, arms spread open, started to walk.

The air was thick and the few parked cars were dripping with water drops. The street lights were very dim and I was only able to see maybe 2 feet around me. There was however not a sound of a person to be heard. No footsteps, talking or whispers, no laughing or lovers kissing. The only sounds were rain hitting different metals, stone and wood, the whispered howl of a soft breeze, the hissing of the water pipes as they drained up the street grates. No birds or dogs, nor cats or rodents to my knowledge.

Then there was the familiar sounds, my breathing, my splashing in the puddles and fingering the car windows, the sound of me drinking the rain and suddenly a buzzing as one of the street lights died.

I stopped dead in my tracks. Pure darkness. I wasn’t afraid. I still don’t know why but I was determined to take this night, as a child would on a playground, Sunday morning.

If only the moon was a bit more exposed, brighter. Nevertheless. Tonight I was indispensable.

I lay flat on my back into the puddlewhere I was previously standing. It was almost my body length and deep enough to just barely cover the thickness of my arms. It was amazing. I was having a bath with nature and didn’t fear, any one of a million scenarios, that could occur. For that matter I also didn’t think something magical could occur either.

I hadn’t heard his footsteps or the slightest sound when he, this stranger, this man approached me.

He knelt down on one knee and as I started to speak firmly as to warn him, he softly stopped me by placing his index fingers on my lips. I, in turn, was curious.

He wore all black, a long coat, boots and had black thick hair to the length of his buttocks. He was soaking wet also, and like I, didn’t seem to mind.

I mean, it was smudged, is the only word I can think of. Eyes and a mouth but no lips or lashes, no nose or chin. He was faceless. I dare not ask a thing and now wonder what this deformed potential night stalker had in store for me.

He said nothing as he began to undress and drop his clothes around the puddle while using his coat to cushion my head. He seemed nervous and I wondered, knowing what was to happen, how often he did this, this form of intimacy. Had he been rejected often because of his deformity? Was he afraid of me rejecting him? Was he embarrassed?

I say definitely not, as he stood there naked with the purest white skin, hair draped over his right shoulder and black body hair to match his clothing. He was beautiful, magnificent, he was going to want me and all he whispered to me, as he ever so gently slid off my nightly, was, ‘I have never done this before’. I said nothing and kissed his chest, whispered things in his ear I was sure he had not heard before. He in turn, like a snake feeling it’s way through grass, touched every part of me. He wanted to know, and I wanted to give.

We made love twice, that night, right there in that puddle. It was more sensual and intimate than anything I could have made up. I instantly felt a love for him and in my exhaustion, closed my eyes for a few moments.

When I opened them again, he was gone. He had left his clothes and just vanished. No name I knew, no hint of his return, just his clothes which still hang now in my closet today.

Because every night, between 8 and 9, for 3 years, I have gone to that spot and waited anxiously for his return.

He never returns. Maybe it was meant to show me, it is truly possible, when 2 people who don’t judge each other, are able to share, as one.

I carry this lessen with me now still, because after the 3rd year of searching, I woke up and dreams are hard to duplicate let alone be as vivid as this one truly was.

And it was her reflection, she spent most of her time with now. Suppose it had been this way longer than she cared to admit. Just the mirrors changed.

Reflections are funny things. Take a mirror for example, and your in its frame. Naked, no makeup, hair pulled back on a short cut shag rug in gray, completing the picture is a rose crystal chandelier, ever so fragile, dangling above your head.

What details strike us? What colors illuminate? How much do we notice the amount of light? Are there details in the mirror? What is behind us?

Most of us in any new reflection, spend our sights studying ourselves. Searching for some change. Hoping for more similarities. Enough so, it intrigues us to stare longer than we are even aware. We want to see ourselves and detail what we would change. Change for the better, more appealing, visually more attractive, signs of a sexy presentation. In the end we want to see ourselves as we believe we should be seen.

Familiar Routines

Her tiny frame was misleading, even to the two men escorting her from home, taking her coat once inside her dressing room. With a thorough room sweep, proceeded politely by closing and locking the overly large double wooden doors upon their exit.

She stripped to bare skin, at marathon speed, jewelry included, and as any well mannered woman, replaced her nakedness with her favorite floor length, purple and feathered cape, rather robe, or a combination thereof.

That didn’t relax her near as much as the scent of a country rose garden. Fresh cut long stem roses every evening throughout the room.

Tess did decorate her oasis. Demanding she could certainly be, as everything she loved in life, the simple things to us, was everything she had worked so hard to become. The key to a successful art of applying stage make up was lighting. Overhead lighting made her washed out and gray. Thus applying color to her beautiful face wrong in tone.

She noticed the time, always running late daydreaming and losing herself in her world of unforgettable passion that day by day seemingly came true.

Powdered her thigh high, purple boots and began the 6 minute routine of tightly lacing them up. Having to do so lying down, as the heels were so high she couldn’t balance standing up. However, once tightly laced, she could dance and spin your head as though you were watching Swan Lake

Yesterdays

Still lying on the floor she calmly pulled out a joint from her robe and lit it. Closed her eyes and took a long drag. It was that first toke that always helped her get through the memories of yesterday. The yesterdays where there was no Tess.

She stood and started pacing as she smoked, to firmly secure the fit of her boots as always. Decided to go to the open window, where a brick building with the same window mirrored back. Instantly, three men were popping their heads up one at a time, like peeping toms.

Fools indeed. Surely they need not act this way when, on the net, she had been seen for sale on my stripper pole for $100 bucks. If they only knew a time, she could show her gyrations to these strangers how an American slut unwinds.

She didn’t laugh or say a word, only was triggered more so, from yesterday. Men her entire life behaved foolishly towards her. She, without doubt was stunningly beautiful, since forever. Tess, however really never saw the attraction, to behave in such a manner.

It was the bricks mostly that did so. The sight again of yesterday. Visually flashing back in time, not yet a decade.

15 and alone

It became a post traumatic stress reaction for her to such a degree, Tess never did two things, one, cry and two, never doubt or let anything ruin her dream.

She ended that thought with the visual and uneasy memory of her rapist that did meet with one of her own bricks, twice, that’s all it took and that’s where her thoughts must leave it.

But her thoughts would not let her. She could smell the sweat. feel the the other strippers bodily slime on the poles, see the owner shaking his fist full of a wad of bills to hurry up with another lap dance.

She wasn’t Tess then, rather she being immature used her birth name. However she was not the last one to use it. The chanting of her birth name through stabbing, groping, rapes, screaming on the stage, pimps, beatings,slaps, grabs, kicks, the notorious VIP special lap dance lounge, and the worst of all being called a stripper not a dancer.

She was not dumb, but this is all she knew, and the pathway to everything she wanted.

Who was anyone to judge her fantasy, they spoke her name for the last time. As did she. What transpired the next evening changed her life forever.

Still starring in the mirror, Tess was smiling as she applied her thick lipstick and false eyelashes, reflecting, first and foremost she had not one bruise on her and secondly of that magical night that changed her name and her took a leap towards fulfilling her dream.

Did however place her hand on the back of her neck from when she inked with a tattoo X-MAN’S NEXT. She looked back up in the mirror recalling how she got that tattoo the day after her change of course took place because of him.

Curtain Call 1 hour

Never had Tess been remotely late for a curtain call. Passion is passion, and when it bites you, all facets come into play in the most serious of manners.

At 24 she looked like a movie star, felt like one too. Burlesque performing was a level of singing and acting and dancing and wardrobe far beyond anything she had dreamed of, let alone seen.

Yes him, Michael, in 6 years has never hurt her, always made her feel like a queen and continues to be the only lover she believes will ever have. She loves him, though 20 years her senior, no one ever did things to her, the way he could.

However he understands and respects Tess for absolutely no form of intimacy or relationship of love. She does not desire it, nor needs it, or wants it. He still pleased her beyond fairy tales.

Back not so long ago, stripping in violent circumstances, young and so very abused, Tess was dancing, and will never forget how a man could be so kind.

It was a gentleman who turned out to be Michael she was about to meet. Routinely doing her stage chair act nude, out of nowhere a man threw his overcoat around her and as he was carrying her out of the shady club, the owner with his baseball bat took a swing.

Michael ducked, threw 5K his way, and simply said, that should keep you busy for a good long time. Your lucky I dont report you she’s a mess.

There it was. Mess. Like a flash of light right there in this strangers arms she named herself Tess, as thats what she really heard.

Michael owned an upscale Burlesque club, which is where she sat now. He formed her and she continues to be the mainlining act and graciously protected at all times.

As she finished her hair she forbid herself to wonder why he saved her life and handed her her dream.

Like clockwork, Tess almost ready, she could hear the ramblings of Michael tipping security to burst in with purple flowers and to take her to a place where only shared secrets breed, and ecstasy is redefined every time.

Final encore and she bolted for her safe place with the double doors.

After all these years as Tess, trying to catch her breath, eyes closed and tears streaming for the first time in ten years, she prayed they liked her, god she prayed they were there, spotlights are blinding.

Security had been instructed days ago, no one allowed through those door but them and the Sunset Strip reps.

She couldn’t breath and those stupid tears were ruining their make up should they come to see her.

Stop. Just Stop

There is no IF in my fantasy.

That’s when Tess exhaled and really realized she was her own fantasy all along. She created Tess. As she start…..

Almost don’t want to write about these murders as it gives them once again, more attention

I can’t help but feel for the family’s left with such tragedy’s

According to the FBI, the definition of a serial Killer is someone who kills 3 or more people, with a cooling off period between each murder.

10 Convicted Canadian Serial Killers

The 10 Top Serial killers , who have been convicted in Canada, are as follows;

Paul Kenneth Bernrdo with Karla Homolka

Wayne Boden

John Martin Crawford

Russell Maurice Johnson

William Patrick Fyfe

Gilbert Paul Jordan

Allan Legere

Clifford Robert Olson Junior

Robert ‘Willie’ Pickton

Peter Woodcock

Below will detail who each one of these murderers were and what happened or is happening to them. Remembering there is no death Penalty in Canada and the maximum sentence for life is 25 years.

Thankfully you can convict a serial killer with more than one life which means they still are eligible for parole, again, in 25 years regardless.

1. Paul Bernardo and Karla Holmolka

Paul Bernardo (and Karla Homolka)

Also known now as Ken and Barbie

Paul was Canada’s most famous serial killer who raped over a dozen women in Scarborough, in the 1980’s. It was only after his arrest for murder that the Scarborough Rapist was identified as Paul Bernardo.

In February 1991, Bernardo moved to St. Catharine’s, Ontario, wanting to be with his fiance, Karla Homolka. She enjoyed encouraging his sadistic fantasies. The two had already killed Karla’s fifteen-year-old sister, Tammy. They drugged and tried to rape her less than two months earlier. Tammy’s death had been ruled accidental. Unbelievable.

Paul and Karla kidnapped, tortured and murdered two schoolgirls in 1991 and 1992. They filmed extensive video footage of their victims’ ordeals, as well as the rape of Tammy and another girl known as Jane Doe. The tapes proved invaluable evidence at the trial. Karla quickly turned against Bernardo in exchange for a deal. She served ten years for manslaughter. She now lives in Montreal.

The press went nuts with the two good-looking suburban couple – so much so that another serial killer, John Martin Crawford, received almost received no press or attention while on trial at the same time, for several rape and murders in Saskatchewan.

Bernardo was convicted on three counts of murder, and serves a life sentence in solitary confinement at Kingston Penitentiary, Ontario. He has since changed his name to Paul Teale.

He legally cannot serve more than 25 years regardless of how many murders and tortures he executed. This is Canada’s legal system.

I have been to Kingston Federal Penitentiary and can tell you it is no where near what I would consider a maximum security facility. In addition he is so famous in prison he gets everything he wants.

2. Wayne Boden

Wayne Clifford Boden

Also known as the Vampire Killer

Wayne killed at least three women in Montreal and one in Calgary, between 1969 and 1971. He had a habit of viciously biting the breasts of his victims.

Different than many serial killers, Boden knew most of the women he killed. Friends and co-workers of the victims identified him, but sadly police circulated the wrong suspect photo. Wayne fled to Calgary.

There, he murdered a schoolteacher. The woman’s breasts had been mauled, as his ongoing trademark, and Calgary police instantly made the connection thankfully to the vampire killings in Montreal.

His trial was the first in North America to ever use dental forensics as evidence, or bite marks as evidence, to convict a killer. He received three life sentences, and served time at the Kingston Penitentiary. He died of cancer in 2006. No one attended funeral services and to this date have visited his grave. I might have only to set it on fire.

3. John Martin Crawford

John Martin Crawford

a.k.a. The First Nations Murders

Crawford raped, tortured and murdered Native women. His first kill was in 1981, at the age of 19. Unbelievable, after serving less than ten years, John was released in 1989, and moved in with his mother in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

He drank heavily, sniffed glue and solvents, and injected drugs. Almost nightly, he spent his time, looking for prostitutes. A former fellow inmate, Bill Corrigan, now a friend, frequently joined him.

May 1992, 16-year-old Shelley Napope asked the pair for a ride. They raped and beat her, and John stabbed her to death. Then raped, tortured and killed two more women in September of that same year.

A hunter discovered the remains of these women in 1994. Police arrested Crawford in January, 1995, but not before he had beaten and raped yet another woman.

Investigators believe he killed at minimum six women, and assaulted many more. In May 1996, Crawford was convicted on three counts of murder, and now serves concurrent life sentences in the Saskatchewan Penitentiary. He will still only serve a maximum of 25 years.

4. Russell Maurice Johnson

Russel Maurice Johnson

known as the Bedroom Strangler

Russel would climb up balconies to the height of fifteen stories. Between 1973 and 1977, Russel killed at least seven women in the towns of Guelph and London, Ontario.

The first four victims were concluded to have died of natural causes. Their apartment doors were locked, and there were no signs of a struggle. Then, the attacks grew in savagery. Police tracked down a Mr. Russell Johnson, an auto worker with a criminal past.

Russel pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity to 3 murders. After, he confessed to raping and killing four more victims. He is incarcerated at the Mental Health Centre in Penetanguishene, Ontario. He has confessed to 7 additional murders, and 17 attacks, but has not been charged. And I am sure he never will be. May he at least be living his days in a straight jacket.

Convenient confession to being mentally insane after being competent enough to defend himself in the trial. He will not see the light of dy again given his admittance to being criminally insane. Hope the food is good.

5. William Patrick Fyfe

William Patrick Fyfe

a.k.a the handyman killer

William acted as a yard worker or handyman to gain entrance to the homes of single women in the Montreal, Quebec area. He confesses to have killed his first victim in 1979, when he was twenty-four. In 1981,then confesses to brutally raping and murdering a 52-year-old Montreal woman.

In 1999, William went on a killing spree. He confesses to the sexual assault and murder of nine women. Neighbors thought of him as a friendly, well-liked man. In December 1999, he brutally murdered Mary Glen, 50. Police tracked him down with fingerprint matching, and found spots of human blood on his sneakers and clothing items.

William Fyfe confessed to the murders, and now remains in treatment at a psychiatric facility in Saskatchewan, Ontario.

Must be the place to go – wonder if they all play bridge together.

6. Gilbert Paul Jordan

Gilbert Paul Jordan

a.k.a the boozing barber

Gilbert was the first serial killer to use alcohol as a murder weapon. A s a retired barber, he drank over fifty ounces of vodka a day, and then craved drunken sex. His victims were transient addicts and prostitutes in Vancouver’s notorious Downtown Eastside.

Between 1965 and 1988, Jordan killed at least ten women, and most likely more. He would pay a woman for sex, take her to a hotel and encourage her to drink until she passed out. He then forced alcohol down her throat until she died.

Eventually, police linked fingerprints at one crime scene to another, and placed Jordan under strict surveillance. They thankfully rescued his next targeted victim as Jordan was plying her with alcohol.

The Boozing Barber served only six years for manslaughter. He was re-arrested for parole violation, and died in 2006. I wonder if he had a drink first?

7. Allan Legere

Allan Legere

a.k.a monster of the miramichi

Allan terrorized the Miramichi region of New Brunswick for many months. He was already serving a life sentence for a brutal murder and rape but had escaped custody at a hospital in Moncton, New Brunswick, in 1989.

While still running free, he beat 75-year-old Annie Flam to death, and raped and beat her sister, Nina, then proceeded to set their house on fire. In October, he attacked two sisters in their 40’s. He beat, raped and murdered them both, then again set fire to the house.

Gun and home security sales rose in the Miramichi region. People, terrified, moved in with friends, and Halloween was canceled. In November, an elderly priest failed to show up for mass. Parishioners found him brutally beaten to death.

This was one of the most massive manhunts in Canadian history, police recaptured Legere on November 19, 1989. He is currently one of ninety inmates at the Special Handling Unit in Quebec, a dubious distinction he shares with the notorious child killer Clifford Olson.

Hope they clicked as friends, could get boring when your not able to be a sadistic murder.

8. Clifford Robert Olson Jr.

Beast of British Columbia

In 1980 and 1981, Clifford Olson drove around B.C. on a spree of rape, torture and murder. Olson killed eleven children and teens, and sent letters to their parents, detailing the tortures and deaths. In August, 1981, police arrested him when he tried to abduct two girls.

Olson confessed, and offered to show police the location of the bodies in return for a payment of $100,000, made to his wife. The demand sparked public outrage, but the payment was made, and Olson located the bodies.

Clifford Olson is serving eleven concurrent life sentences at the Special Handling Unit in Quebec, Canada. He is now eligible to apply for parole every two years.

9. Robert ‘Willie’ Pickton

Robert “Willie” Pickton – The Pig Farmer

Vancouver pig farmer Robert Pickton is Canada’s most prolific serial killer. He confessed to killing and butchering 49 women between 1983 and 2002. His victims were sex trade workers and drug addicts from Vancouver’s notorious Downtown Eastside.

Pickton invited them, with other guests, to wild parties at the pig farm. In 2002, police raided the farm looking for firearms. They discovered human remains, and personal belongings of women on Vancouver’s “missing” list. Pickton had fed some of his victims to the pigs.

He is charged with twenty-six murders, and has been convicted on six. An appeal hearing is tentatively scheduled for March, 2009 in Vancouver.

After-Word: Edmonton,Alberta

Following the arrest of pig farmer and serial killer Robert “Willie” Pickton in British Columbia, the neighboring province of Alberta formed a task force (KARE) in 2003 to investigate the deaths of transient women and sex trade workers.

Twenty-five sex trade workers have been killed in the Edmonton area since 1975. Investigators suspect a serial killer is responsible for at least eight of the murders.

Police have made one arrest: Thomas Svekla. Svekla killed one woman, and was charged with the murder of another. In 2007, he pled guilty to manslaughter in one death, but is not linked to others.

The search for the Edmonton Serial Killer(s) continues.

10. Peter Woodcock

Peter Woodcock – Teenage Child Killer

Peter Woodcock was only seventeen when he lured a seven-year-old boy into the deserted Toronto Exhibition Grounds, and raped and killed the child. He claims that killing made him feel like God. He then killed another little boy in Cherry Beach. His third victim was a four-year-old girl, whom he raped and strangled in a ravine. He claims to have attacked several more children.

Police arrested Woodcock, a grade eleven student, in 1957. The courts declared him legally insane, and sent him to the psychiatric facility in Penetanguishene, Ontario. In 1982 he changed his name to David Michael Krueger.

By 1991, Krueger seemed a model patient and received his first day pass. Within the hour, he had stabbed and hatcheted another inmate to death.

Before Now

I met my current partner 15 years ago. We have been in a relationship for 5 years. That leaves 10 years of situations that did not include any sexual relations at all.

It was 15 years ago we worked together on global print and broadcast advertising accounts, in the same agency. We travelled together, socialized in professional functions a great deal, and mostly worked as a team, side by side, many hours a day.

My first impression of him stemmed from his introverted personality.

He wore all black, always, with no exceptions. Sported long hair that was always tightly pulled back in a ponytail. He was extremely private, and as a result, very quiet.

Now me, being an extreme extrovert, and one who constantly was playing around, made us polar opposites. They do say opposites attract. While there was no doubt attractions existed from both sides, I was in the midst of planning a very big wedding.

Here’s the thing. And the reason I am sharing this with you. He was cool in every way except one.

He would stare. Constantly. More so at me but I noticed at others as well.

A stillness would accompany his frequent stare and made me quite uneasy.

You would think it was creepy, but it felt unpersuasive. Not intimidating nor arrogant. Never sexual or any feeling of judgement. Not mean or angry. Actually you could read no emotion into it at all. Nor reason or motive. Completely mysterious.

But he would just stare.

I didn’t know if it was a habit he had formed or maybe wasn’t even aware of it at all. If he was I couldn’t imagine why and more so what was going through his head. What was he thinking about? Did he remember what he would see? Did he know other people knew he stared and did he care? How much did he know or maybe want people to be uncomfortable?

I, personally became very uncomfortable in his silent stare. But was much to afraid to say anything. Almost like it was my own imagination. Too awkward of a subject to approach him with and yet I felt awkward when he did.

The situation grew as he began to stare more and I would catch him out of the corner of my eye or when I looked up at him.

During that year it did get creepy for me. I focused more to myself and less as a team. Did he know he was pushing people away, or is this what he wanted to do after all?

Despite his habit, I cared for him deeply, but his stare kept me at a distance.

Basically, he stared me into silence.

The Missing Years

And so I married and worked as hard as ever, until an illness took me from my profession. This illness is called drug addiction, and I was going to the US, to Malibu, for Rehab. Minimum one year.

I kept in touch with no one, and focused on my recovery. Got divorced following rehab, and lost custody of my daughter, in the cruelest of ways.

Was unable to work due to mental illness, and found myself quite alone. I never did contact my partner and given I had moved three times, he had no way of contacting me. I didn’t want anyone to regardless. To tell them what? I had lost everything, my life was completely in ruins, and was incapable of building a new one?

However, I often thought of my partners ocean blue eyes and did miss his stare.

Now with time going by and memories fading, for some reason I held onto his stare, and missed it. Mostly the attention it had brought me, and the fantasy that stare created. Choosing to believe he had been infatuated with me.

I had no self esteem to contact anyone, let alone him. In my despair I held onto the notion, of maybe one day, working again. I knew now, and had to accept it would never be an executives career again.

In the meantime, during visits to the psych wards, months at a time, I found a passion. That passion was writing. I wrote everyday, all day, sometimes. Accumulated dozens of journals and wrote about everything and everyone. I wrote about fantasy’s and fairy tales. Trials and tribulations. That writing saved my life.

As I would think and pause from writing I found myself not just thinking but also staring. With nothing in my head, no thoughts or details. Just staring.

And would think of those ocean blue eyes. And often.

Maybe that’s why he would stare all those times. For no reason at all. I began to understand the possibility of his habit.

Myself, I continued to stare, unaware of what I was staring at.

A Reunion, My Miracle

That was it. A decade had flown by.

For me, I was still unable to work, and continuing therapy. I had not once contacted or ran into anyone from the past. I still had no self esteem to do so anyway.

Still in recovery trying to stay clean from drugs, I hit an AA meeting with my regular Saturday night group. I was late as usual and the meeting had started. I sat at the back and took my coat off.

As I looked up after there he was. No more than 6 feet in front of me. Not one thing had changed about him. He turned to notice me and smiled, then faced back towards the front. I was trembling and shocked that I was so nervous. He never turned around again. I couldn’t believe the reality that he was a recovering alcoholic, and I never knew.

Through the entire meeting I stared at the back of him.

The standard reunion greetings were exchanged and I chuckled as he did still stare and was still very quiet. I felt very nervous and we had so much to catch up on. Eager to do so,we went back to his loft, to talk.

Which we did no talking, more than, how are you.

Passionately we instantly started making love and continued to do so for 2 days. And yes his stare was continuous. It was different however. More relaxed with confidence.

Now I am a shy person, especially when it comes to nudity. To be stared at naked made me extremely self conscious.

Then slowly he wasn’t staring at me anymore, but watching me. And he has ever since.

Somethings never change

See, I love it now when I catch him silently staring at me. I am touched knowing it’s because he’s watching me.

It no longer bothers me, nor intimidates me. I get it.

His stare is just that. A stare.

A look of interest, a look of thought, a look of observation, a look of distance, a look of curiosity and a look of approval.

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